Alia Minora
by Tremulous X.H
Summary: The twin sisters Fate and Fortune have wreaked havoc on the universe since the beginning of time. Yet, when both focus their might on a single individual it is written away as providence by the simple, deliverance by the faithful, and judgment by the damned. /OCs, original plot; Post "Aliens." T to be safe. 3/8/13: New chapter up, sorry I've been dead for more than a month
1. Chapter 1

The child gazed up at his face, the drug-induced stupor still marking his features. Never mind the barrel of the assault rifle trained on his head, a military grade laser dot nesting on the boy's forehead, almost like one of symbols used by the old religions of Earth. The child stared on. Still, he stood as a statue, frozen with terrible purpose.

Michael Antaeus did not sign up to murder children, in hot or cold blood. His employer wanted to send a message, yet lacked the willingness to carry out the deed. That was out of character for Alexander, he who prided himself on being as the kings of old that never shrunk from being judge as well as executioner.

Antaeus exhaled, the dot flitting over the kid's forehead ever so slightly. The child, on the cusp of his teenage years, stood there. He could not act. This was a child, for God's sake. How can a person be asked to commit such an atrocity?

The clacking whir of the Maximus drone reminded him of his contract. _All orders are expected to be executed promptly and efficiently. Sedition will not be tolerated._ His overseer was watching indirectly through the optics array of a trio of red eyes arranged in a triangle, focusing and dilating, observing what he would do.

"SPARTAN, I have a question regarding a technicality," Michael spoke, trigger finger still poised. _Lord forgive me for what I suggest…_

The array shifted to the right, the topmost one changing to a bronze yellow. "Audio received from subject, Michael Antaeus, Chief of Gunnery on Maximus vessel _Charon_. SPARTAN assuming direct control," the drone almost sounded like a pleasant English butler. The voice that followed was like the shift of a clear summer day into a raging tempest, a voice that rolled and boomed with terrible purpose.

"ALEXANDER IS BECOMING IMPATIENT. HE DOES NOT LIKE THIS PHYSIOLOGICAL STATE. CALCULATIONS INDICATE THAT THIS ACTION SHOULD HAVE BEEN CONCLUDED ONE POINT TWO-SIX-THREE MINUTES AGO."

"As I said, I have been considering a technicality," Michael began in a measured tone he had cultivated during his tour of duty with the United Systems Navy when addressing superior officers. "The definition of death can be satisfied without physical bereavement of life. I received word from a colleague in the pharmaceutical department regarding a drug in development capable of inflicting retrograde amnesia. As the loss of memory has long been considered to be a living death in and of itself, and this drug has been requesting a field test in recent months, why not satisfy both requirements in this scenario?"

Antaeus still had not lowered his weapon nor untrained his sights. He had to sell this as best as he could, playing the part of the dutiful soldier only wishing to satisfy his commander. He did _not_ want the blood of an innocent on his hands.

"YOUR LOGIC IS WELL CONSTRUCTED." The drone clicked and the trio of eyes shifted again, turning back to red.

Michael stood, arms bared to the cold night. He took this brief moment of respite to examine his surroundings. They had shuttled offworld as quickly as possible after the mission with the package. The gunnery chief had heard one of his compatriots mention DR-213 as the destination. Planets with that designation tended to be real cesspools. It was their job, after all, to be detritus reclamation centers. The chosen location to dispose of the package had turned out to be a decommissioned vessel ground, a graveyard for the rusty leviathans who had earned their rest. The original course of actions was to eliminate the package, mount him on a noticeable vantage, and send the holograph of the grisly scene as a message to all who would consider refusing to honor a contract with Maximus Corporation.

The drone's optics nearly shifted to the active bronze state, but then reverted. It did this three more times, and on the fourth finally shifted. Antaeus was not prepared to be addressed by _him_, the voice of a man refined with cold intelligence and little warmth, similar to the machine serving as his medium.

"Mr. Antaeus. Normally, I would be disappointed with such a blatant disregard for my authority. Yet, I do appreciate the thought that one of my employees would consider a course of action that would prove more efficient than my original plan made in a fit of unthinking rage." Alexander himself; a chill ran through his spine, and the laser dot completely went off mark as Michael flinched. "I have considered your proposed course of action and deemed it acceptable. Congratulations, Captain Antaeus, on passing your test."

Dumbstruck, the newly promoted captain listened on in rapt attention.

"As it so happens, there is such a sample of the drug you mentioned, Alzahytazine, present on this drone platform," the machine in question clacked, and shot a dart at the boy. The dart hit him in the shoulder, and the boy's legs began to give out, eyes rolling back into his head. "Do not worry; this dose was paired with an additional tranquilizer to help the Alzahytazine work."

The boy, with one last convulsion slumped into a pile, a well-deserved sleep given the recent events he had been forced to endure. His eyes fluttered open, a look of pain and terror on them as the conscious mind reawakened for a brief moment. The young steel gray eyes implored Antaeus to help him.

Michael looked away. The eyes closed, defeated.

"Hmm. That does not seem to be right… The boy is slipping into a coma. Ah, well, such must be expected of these sorts of things still in the experimental stages." It was Michael's turn to close his eyes. He had hoped to save the boy's life. Was this possibly worse?

"Sir. Thank you for this opportunity to prove myself," the monotony of his tone hid his true feelings.

"Report back to the _Charon_. The next Maximus vessel to leave dry dock will be under your command. Again, congratulations… _Captain_." Alexander signed off, the drone's eyes revolved again, switching to the onboard AI's guidance. Lifting off into the night's gloom, three streaks of red could be seen flaring across the sky if there were any eyes to see.

Captain Michael Antaeus cast one more forlorn look at the child he had tried to save, then left in the direction of his shuttle.

/ / / /

Once the shuttle had left the atmosphere, a mag-crane platform inexorably boosted towards the general area where the boy had been left, supposedly to die. To the contrary, a silhouette extracted itself from the rusted side of a dead ship, deactivating its active camouflage. It appeared alike to a giant arachnid.

The spider crawled to where the unconscious form lay on death's door. The spider drone, eight translucent green eyes surveying the surrounding area constantly, gingerly picked him up with a pair of its middle legs. It started towards one of the rusting hulks, the largest in attendance, which had a gash in its side from a past battle. The boy swayed gently as the metallic arachnid carefully weeded its way through the various bits of discarded furniture, jagged shards of metal, broken glass, even scores of books that had been abandoned when their owners discovered that they no longer held value in a universe that used completely digital transcripts. One might have mistaken the beast for a caring one as it took extra pains to not damage its cargo. Its AI was sophisticated, but not on this level.

After all, it was merely following SPARTAN's directive.

Light years away, in dark space far from all explored territories, and certainly far from all other signs of human colonization, legitimate or not, a hologram colored in red of an eight foot tall warrior clad in heavy bronze plate observed the ministrations of the extension of its will. The arachnid drone deposited the slumbering youth in a secluded corner of the hulk, securing him in a hypersleep capsule that had been installed some time ago. After finishing its task, it enfolded itself around the capsule in a protective embrace.

SPARTAN did not comprehend the emotional charge related to deception. It – or rather he, as it preferred – only understood the products of the device. Antaeus was slated to die from the moment he stepped foot on DR-213, whether or not he also shot the boy. His development had come unforeseen, and had saved his skin. Alexander was impressed with the man's quick thinking, voting to keep him despite SPARTAN's urgings to eliminate a possible loose end. Alas, his master must be obeyed; it was in his coding to do so. No, Alexander had intended a darker fate that simply death for the boy, progeny of the man who had dared renege on his contract.

The Professor had reluctantly voiced a need for a particular kind of specimen to test a theory of his. Alexander was, in all things, a very efficient man. He hated wasted opportunities and unexploited resources.

SPARTAN watched as the mag-crane, now slightly displaced over the ship graveyard, began to stir into action. The huge structure groaned in protest as the colossal magnetic circuits churned into life, creating a massive humming that could be heard from horizon to horizon. The force created would have instantly killed an unshielded human being from the sheer proximity. The hulk that now housed precious cargo began to rise ponderously, garbage that had lain undisturbed for god knows how long sliding off into open air and the long descent downwards.

As soon as the hulk became attached to the mag-crane's boom, it began to angle towards outer space. A freighter waited up just beyond the furthest reaches of the upper atmosphere, far more immense than the old military vessel, cargo bay ajar. Once the proper trajectory had been attained, the magnetic circuitry accelerated into a new frenzy.

SPARTAN always felt his collective processing power increase speed ever so slightly when he observed the products of Maximus Corporation in action. The experience had been decried to him as the human equivalent of exhilaration by the technicians he queried. It did not come as a surprise. His programming was an extrapolation of Alexander's neural map. It would stand to reason that some things could be echoed across the plane separating man and machine.

After an intense buildup of gauss potential, the humming stopped. Time stood still as the boom pointed towards the stars…

And then Time shattered with the blast that released a shockwave, improbably propelling the hulk into space and sending every mountain of trash within five miles flying. The mass of scrap metal hurtled out into the atmosphere, its tiny cargo well protected within the structure added within its bowels.

SPARTAN turned his attention to other corners of the web belonging to Maximus that spanned the known universe and then some.

Within his pod Tyver's mind woke for the briefest of moments from his induced coma, holding desperately onto the one thing he couldn't forget: his name. If his EEG chart had been monitored at that moment, someone would have known that the youth was fully aware. Apparently, some interaction between the transition from the drug-induced coma to hypersleep had an unforeseen effect of infinitesimal probability.

As the hulk was collected by the freighter, the latter preparing for a jump, the youth once more slipped into the gray haze of sleep and dreams. He would remember only his name, owing to the near perfect drug tested on him, coursing through his veins as his body prepared for suspended animation.

His name, and the dim realization that fate had just taken a special interest in him.

/ / / /

Greetings! I understand that the beginning of this story is painfully slow, but know that it pains me as well to simply jump right into the action. Bear with me as I set up the backstory.

Any reviews, thoughts, comments, minor yet aggravating typos and grammatical conundrums are welcome. Please excuse the latter, as I didn't take the time to proofread carefully. Should such a thing be quite bothersome, I will be motivated to do so.

I would prefer only constructive criticism voiced in measured, reasoned diction, though I do understand that sometimes one feels that need. Should that need arise on my stories, I will not erase said review. However, I do hope that the site moderators do show leniency for any violations of their policies in the course of such actions.

Updates will be slow, as I have a heavy workload for the next few weeks. I will try to post new chapters as they come, but no promises on exact time frames.

Thanks, have a nice day, and may fortune smile upon the path you tread!

(And to her that once bore the pen name Shay Piratess, whatever it was, here is me sticking it to you, you hormonal hag that decided pregnancy excused crushing the spirit and ripping the draft of a budding author apart all those years ago, instead of offering helpful advice in a more professional manner)


	2. Chapter 2

The _Versailles _was once a first class luxury liner in its hey-day whose size once rivaled a typical United Systems Colonial Navy dreadnaught. Complete with numerous five Sol-class star rated hotel chains, more amusements than once could count, and the latest and greatest in hydroponic and deep space agricultural units, the _Versailles_ could sustain the population of a small city for two years on its extended sight-seeing voyages. The events leading up to its abrupt decommissioning were shocking for all parties involved.

Intended for the rich and powerful, the _Versailles_ also had an underground, unadvertised portion of its entertainment that one could only chance upon in the after-hours of most other attractions. Blood sports, animal cage fighting, and all sorts of other highly illegal but incredibly exhilarating events were held in the hidden compartments tucked here and there in the ship, specially designed to prevent those with scruples from reporting the exotic fare. Apparently as told by the survivors, crew members and those who had been nearest to the mere handful of life pods shirked in favor of greater carrying capacity, someone had accidentally procured a xenomorph egg in place of an advertised rare wasp that had a knack for killing most animals it encountered. The poor handler tasked with preparing the fight was the first to die as a juvenile xenomorph erupted from his chest. What ensued was, as intended, complete and utter chaos. A contingent from the general paparazzi had managed to actually find berth on the ship covered nearly the entire day of sheer madness created by the terror of discovering a full-fledged alien on the loose.

Long story short, the _Versailles_ was barely evacuated before all the life boats left the ship behind. A large amount of the passengers lost their lives, life insurance high rollers of course, and the flagship of Aurora Enterprises went bankrupt before the lawyers had even sunk their fangs into the meat of this media catastrophe.

And now, the once "Happiest Place in Space!" served as a jumbo space freighter, an enterprising businessman buying the hulk at the going out of business sale. The blood stains were washed, the extra frills were discarded, and the space optimized for carrying unusually large cargo; as it was doing so right now, moving fast for a deceptively large ship.

Anton Devik, a grizzled older man who had seen many years that etched lines in his visage, reclined in his captain's chair, one of the few things he had kept while retrofitting the _Versailles_. It was a very comfortable chair, as were most accommodations for the crew. Their living quarters were all located towards the front of the ship, surprisingly luxurious for the equivalent of day laborers that were expected to tarry on the whims of those worth quite many more zeroes than they were. Combat was never expected in its original design, a full contingent of military or mercenary always obtained for the journey. And so, their quarters were all located on the front face of the _Versailles_, affording a view of the universe as it sped by.

Devik looked up at the main screen. He had counted perhaps two, three days since he and his had left United Systems space. What disquieted him was that they had been following the heading given to him by his current contractor for over a month.

He pressed a button on the arm console, making a short chirp with three notes reminiscent of an old twentieth century science-fiction program he had once seen. "Yvonne, check the transponder again please. Are you sure it cannot be reactivated?"

"Sorry boss, it's completely fried. I've tried every trick in the book and then some to fix it, but just as I think I got it, the damn thing shorts out again." The manufacturers had skimped on a holographic system for communications, but the audio quality was still better than many commercial grade systems he had had the displeasure of using. Anton heard his engineer slam a tool down on wherever she was working. If she couldn't fix it, something fishy was up.

"Take a break. Ignore it for now. Thanks for trying." Devik knew that a package detailed as this large could only mean a deep load of trouble for him. He had let the money get to his head, though. He hoped that nothing would go wrong, but a little voice kept on telling him he may never see Mars, his birth planet, again.

He touched another button for a ship-wide address. "McHaddock, Jinnford; what's the status of the cargo? Any changes at all?" He waited for the response that came in the form of an Irishman's voice flowing from the speakers.

"Naow, cappin' sar. No change et all. It's still as dead as it was when we fi'ist picked it up."

Devik let out a heavy sigh. He cursed himself silently for not listening to his gut instinct in the first place. He could not shake the feeling that he probably was not going to return a much richer man, if at all.

/ / / /

The Professor stood, his hands manipulating the large wall-mounted holoscreen in a flurry of movement incomprehensible to an unlearned observer. A biochemical formula was displayed in the top half of the space provided, constituent elements sometimes picked up, moved, replaced, or completely deleted by the quick motions of one hand. The lower half contained a visual cacophony of hundreds of lines of equations being tossed about, proofed, and glanced at with a nervous intensity.

He sighed and stepped a few steps back, resting his arms for a moment, eyes darting all over the board. _It still isn't perfect. At this rate, I have only decreased the probability of failure from ninety-nine-point-eight-three-six, repeating, percent down to ninety-… Damn, that actually increased it!_

Giving a subdued snarl, he performed the gesture to restore the formula to its original notation. Sliding his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose, the Professor gazed mutely at the greatest challenge he had ever faced.

_Why must all my results further validate _his_ reasoning for mass testing?_

A hatch that covered the air duct into the dark room illuminated only slightly by the glow of the holoscreen commenced to open. A Maximus drone flitted out, its optics array crowned by a bronze light. The Professor reflexively raised his hand as the pest of a machine descended to eye level and pulsed its light over his features, then maneuvering back up to the way it had came in. It began its address with a calm enough voice.

"Subject, Professor Benjamin Darkarlov, located. SPARTAN assuming direct control." An animated hologram of a Greek soldier in full armor sprung into life near the doors that marked the only entry into this room materialized, advancing on the individual in question to stop right before a physical being would have bowled him over.

"LOGS INDICATE THAT YOU HAVE DELETED THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE POSSIBLE NEW COMBINATIONS OF THE COMPOUND IN THE LAST TWO HOUR SESSION. ALEXANDER IS CURIOUS AS TO WHY THIS IS SO."

God, Ben hated that AI. It resembled its master in every way. He faced his assailant with a calm complexion, staring it in the eyes.

"Inform him that, as in all the other sessions, the very nature of this compound is the reason why it is so difficult to balance. To achieve transformation with the least probability of death is-"

"I AM NOT INTERESTED IN EXCUSES. THIS IS ONLY FURTHER EVIDENCE OF YOUR INEPTITUDE, PROFESSOR. I STILL DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE NECESSITY ALEXANDER REGARDS YOU WITH. I WOULD BE ABLE TO HAVE LOWERED THE THRESHOLD OF SUCCESS MANY TIMES OVER COMPARED TO YOUR WEAK PLATFORM'S ATTEMPTS TO COGNATE."

The God complex truly shone through transparently. Still, Ben was not without his own punches he could throw with impunity.

"Your master, my employer, believes that a human touch must be applied to achieve satisfactory results, not the endless grinding of gears that may overlook an important detail. That is all you need to know." He smirked.

The hologram retreated one large step back, turning its head high to glower down its nose at the human below it.

"THE SHIPMENT ARRIVES IN THREE-POINT-SEVEN-TWO STANDARD HOURS. YOU ARE ORDERED TO PREPARE THE MEDTANK AND THE COMPOUND FOR IMMEDIATE EXECUTION."

"Another so soon? But I haven't yet completed trying to-"

"IRRELEVANT," the grating thunderous voice cut him off. The avatar's mouth split into a hideous facsimile of a grin. "OH, AND PROFESSOR? YOUR THEORY REGARDING THE EXPLOITATION OF HUMAN GROWTH IS BEING TESTED AS WELL."

Darkarlov felt flushed, speechless as his mouth worked and no sound was uttered. The drone shifted its triangle of eyes to the automated red position, making its way back into the ventilation through the hatch. He was left alone in the room, a fan quietly slicing through the air as the thought also tore at his heart and soul. Tears welled up in his eyes.

_No…_

/ / / /

Vivre la révolution sur la terre de Versailles? It is said that a single idea can… Okay, moving on.

Anonymous or otherwise, do not be afraid to post some sort of review! Authors crave them as a fat man does sweet vittles, even if they are flames. I do not bite often, only when seriously offended. That takes a lot to achieve. A few short words can do wonders in justifying the maiden voyage of a literary venture, no matter their praise or derision.

I appreciate the follows that I have been receiving so far; at least a few are semi-interested in where this story may go.

I promise that the next chapter will have at least one explosion to lighten the mood, but as stated before that there's no promise as to how soon that may be posted.

If only our bodies did not require sleep… I could get so much done in day…


	3. Chapter 3

Anton Devik stood to address the incoming transmission. It was on the secure frequency detailed to him earlier; short-beam laser, direct line of sight to the ship's communications.

The vidscreen cleared its view of the system's star. The _Versailles_ had halted within the first and second rings made by the orbit of two medium-sized planets, one volcanic and one an icy waste. Its rudimentary survey scanners detected a veritable wealth of natural resources in the forms of metals and rare gases. They had been waiting for half an hour for contact regarding where to drop off the scrapped hulk. Devik personified the feelings of his crew, a ball of nervous anticipation. They wanted to collect their pay and get to something that was familiar, preferably not beyond United Systems space for once.

The transmission winked into existence as the signal was received. Devik coolly regarded the dark silhouette. _Figures… these underworld types never have time for the limelight,_ he thought.

"Good day, Mr. Devik," said the silhouette, using a voice scrambler. "Adjust your course to these coordinates. You will attain geosynchronous orbit above the end destination. Your pay will be waiting upon successful delivery."

As Devik was about to speak, the deep voice blinked out of existence almost as fast as it had appeared. He instead let out an aggravated growl. The data feed commenced to provide the _Versaille_'s ticket out of this unknown part of the galaxy: a Class A Garden planet. The outline of a rather large installation of some sort could be seen from orbit. The _Versailles_'s engines roared into life and started toward the planet, calculating a trajectory to best enter the desired location.

As his eyes began to glaze over the scores of numbers his pilot was currently entering, Anton Devik noticed the name of this planet.

Alia Minora.

/ / / /

Within the dead ship being carried to another final resting place, the spider drone stirred. Its eyes winked on as its destination neared, stasis disabled. It checked over the hypersleep chamber once, ensuring no damage had occurred in transit. Vitals were normal. Brain wave activity indicated that the subject had a dreamless rest. The drone cut out the feed once it reviewed the last twenty-five days recorded, SPARATAN having received satisfactory data.

The integrity of the compartment was intact; the crew had apparently lacked a sense of curiosity of what exactly they were hauling. Then again, it was out of sight, out of mind. The freighter had been modified to seal many feet-thick blast doors to the cargo bay in event of a catastrophic situation. Not that something an obstacle requiring a simple wire bypass could stop this model of drone.

Activating its active camouflage, the drone opened a hatch and exited the compartment. The hatch closed again, being solely a mechanical system that would not register on a typical electrical sensor. The arachnid platform began creeping its way towards the engineering deck, carrying out its directive.

/ / / /

On the planet's surface, an underground hangar opened its massive bay doors, a structure that also acted as a helipad for the local aerial craft on the surface when not performing its intended purpose. A contingent of Maximus construction drones rose up into the air in succession, glorified spheres the size of the standard Terran half-basketball court, six clusters of three arms each assembled in equilateral triangles situated to manipulate six planes of movement, similar to a three dimensional graph, equipped with lockable universal joints for extended range of motion until a grip on an object was attained. The orders to retrieve the hulk, a wealth of raw materials in and of itself even if it was many years disabled, were clear; they oriented themselves in the direction of the star freighter orbiting directly above them up in the far reaches of the planet's atmosphere.

The last drone to leave the confines of the installation, however, was not like the others. It was much larger, about the size of a typical USCM dropship, though its general shape was more curved than the sharp angular faces typically preferred by the military, the pilot's cockpit also non-existent. The carrying capacity had been optimized to carry an eighth more personnel than the trusty dropship, and could carry nearly thrice as much weight.

Lead marksman Marrek Helial shifted the weight of his charge launcher slung over his shoulder to a more ready position where he sat. The vest carrying its odd ammunition, metal spheres marked with a thin band of a particular color wrapped once around its circumference, had begun to grow tight under the pressure of his gun's strap. He closed his eyes, then opened them again to reveal one dark green iris, and one orb as dark as night that seemed as if blind.

Both eyes were used in their full facility to cast about his gaze to the members of his command, a small squad of eight other individuals with their respective Maximus proprietary armaments. Two others carried a charge launcher similar in design to a typical grenade launcher, save the presence of only three chambers designed to hold a much more spherical payload; Marrek loved his gun due to its utility, although the combined weight of weapon and its limited extra charges was sometimes a bother. The rest carried either a gauss rifle, flechette gun, or even both. The gauss rifle was the original staple of Maximus's corporate diet in its infantile stages, having found a niche in many defense departments as a surprisingly non-lethal weapon. These were not those, but ones optimized to fire forty-five caliber depleted uranium spikes with the diameter of a pencil at hypersonic speeds; armor or not, they had the stopping power to blow a target back, or even punch right through bare flesh. Lastly were the flechette guns, courtesy of Daidalos Technologies Corporation, a competitor turned mutual business partner. They applied the same theory as the gauss rifle, yet in a different principle. A cluster of magnetically bound needles, typically blunted or left with point bare, is ejected and separated, with an effect akin to a standard shotgun. It was also a general rule for flechetteers to also carry a few specialized "slugs" as a precaution, miniaturized charges in function but usually performing a safer, non-lethal function.

Marrek's wrist comm. gave a little clicking tone, indicating it was almost time to get down to business. He stood up and walked to the back of the transport, next to the ramp that would lower in about two minutes.

"Listen up: we have nineteen targets to eliminate, and three are being taken care of as we speak. Flechetteers are on point duty. This mission requires a profile of low-tech raiders hitting an easy target. You might as well leave your rifles behind; I know you love your girlfriends, but you might as well leave them behind for this one.

"Flechettes and launchers, load up mock conventional ammo. We need to make this look accurate. The rest of you," he paused, looking intently at each of them before the smirk at the edge of his mouth erupted into a full smile of teeth and a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Get physical. We're pirates, after all, and I hear there's some gals on that steamer."

Marrek shifted around, facing the gang-ramp, having already prepared his own launcher with high-explosive charges designed to mirror the yield of typical low-grade munitions. His men let out small chuckles and cat-calls as they dropped their unnecessary equipment into their respective seats, changing out magazines and charges, and grabbing a melee weapon. Maximus Corporation understood that in certain situations, a good sword, club, or even an improvised weapon such as a chain out-performed even the most sophisticated technology out there in certain circumstances.

In the back, one of the marksmen began to jitter, a tremor rocking his torso and arms as he began to cackle like a madman, eyes wild. His trigger finger was dangerously close to letting a flechette round off in the close quarters of the transport drone's hold. Helial whirled and focused his dark eye on the Maximus tough in question.

"And for the love of God, Jenkins, don't lose it this time! I had to spend that whole week cleaning that blood and other shit off my uniform…"

/ / / /

The Professor had been standing on a field adjacent to the helipad top of the ship hangar when the warning klaxon to clear the surrounding area sounded. High intensity magnetic propulsion tended to be hazardous to biological beings in close proximity.

He looked once more towards the forest bordering the research installation. Alexander had chosen the temperate continent a few degrees above the equator of Alia Minora, as Darkarlov had come to call it, instead of the strange alpha-numeric notation preferred by today's corporate giants privileged to expand into the stars and broker planets. The trees here still bore the scars of a recent fire brought on during the latest incursion of the local xenomorph population. Ben could spot a smoking depression that began to cause a tree resembling an evergreen, several decades old and a few stories high, to teeter, totter, before slowly causing it to fall down with a rolling, almost sad _whoosh_, creating a resounding crash.

Darkarlov felt the platform disengage and, unprepared for the sudden jolt up, then down, lurched forward to catch himself on the acid-resistant, many feet thick glass that made his cage.

Having earned a short respite from the preparations associated with a new test subject, Darkarlov hoped he could have spent the whole afternoon on the surface, despite its limited amount of activities. Then again, perhaps this was for the best: he would have to then witness another murder of innocent people, a tragedy playing several hundred miles above him in space.

As the walls of the facility provided a solid color for the glass, a holographic display played across the four sides of the cube around the Professor. He always hated when he was forced to endure watching and hearing the latest casualties as a direct result of his work-, No, _Alexander's_ work. Alexander simply used Ben as the tool for his own entertainment, an old relic of a past conquest, in exemplum of Maximus Corporation's honey-tongued recruitment policy. Darkarlov had signed a contract with Faust made incarnate.

SPARTAN's avatar portrait flashed into the upper right corner as he dictated the latest news, a look of bemusement over his inhuman, nearly emotionless visage.

"STATUS REPORT: FIVE PROJECTS, TERMINATED. THREE DUE TO COMPOUND SEQEUNCE DEVIATION RESULTING IN ORGAN FAILURE. ONE SUFFERED SKELETAL AND NERVOUS SYSTEM DISINTEGRATION, EUTHANIZED. LAST SUBJECT, XTCE-0002439, EXPIRED AS ONLY HALF OF BODY UNDERWENT SUCCESFUL TRANSFORMATION; THE REST WAS CONSUMED BY THE CHARACTERISTIC ACIDIC BLOOD. THE AUTOPSY IS AWAITING YOUR LEISURE, PROFESSOR." Ben had shut his eyes before the stream of photographs documenting each gruesome failure began to materialize on each face of glass, in tune with SPARTAN's narration. He had already seen the first five-hundred-and-forty-three. He had stopped looking after that.

The platform had finally stopped, at the level he required. The doors slid open, and the Professor left without a word in search of the subject prep room.

_I sincerely hope -, No, I don't know what to hope for any longer. If I fail, this one may be all the better for it. If I succeed, will I doom him to something more horrible than death? Oh Lord, I am not sure, not sure what to do…_

Again, the Professor beat back a tear by blinking profusely and stopping mid-stride to put his hands on the wall. He sniffed once, got a grip on himself, adopted that grim visage of purpose he obtained during a tour of duty in the Darellian Uprising, and started on his way again.

/ / / /

As events played elsewhere, the engineer Yvonne aboard the _Versailles_ was close to making a discovery. Ignoring her captain's order, or suggestion as she saw it due to her union rights, she had decided to instead _take apart_ the transponder, destroying it in the process instead of attempting another fruitless attempt to try and fix it.

She finished using the plasma torch, removing the face shield obscuring her face. Yvonne, being of Slavic descent, had the nearly regal looks of some distinct line in old Earth's long history. It was mainly covered up the grime and dust of her profession, as was her bobbed hair.

"Well, hello there, what are you?" she muttered, pulling a small glass-looking plate that had been obscured by some circuitry and wires. Turning around towards her workbench in the engine room, the engineer examined designs imprinted on the plate that looked like they belonged on a piece going into some sort of sophisticated electronics device. What was it doing saddled _behind_ a low-grade commercial grade transponder?

She turned it to look at it from a different angle, and then held it again like a tablet. She did not notice the faint reflection of something large shifting on the ceiling. Yvonne contemplated whether or not to tell Devik about what she had found. The translucent silhouette coiled its eight limbs underneath it.

As she brought her wrist comm. up to her mouth to speak, a faint electrical hum sounded as the Arachnica drone pounced onto the unsuspecting woman. She barely had time to turn around and open her mouth to scream.

Momentum carried the drone into Yvonne, snapping her neck, among other things, over the metal workbench. Her face was frozen with an expression of horror. It had intended to subdue the threat, having already activated a low-yield electromagnetic pulse a split-second after its active camouflage suite was taken off. The foolish creature nearly had the reflexes to avoid it, but alas she only succeeded in saving herself from the raiders that were about to enter with the Servitor construction drones sent to retrieve the metal hulk and its hidden treasure.

The others would not share such an easy accident of fate.

/ / / /

"Mr. Devik," the deep throat began, having made contact with Anton Devik again, "Your payment is arriving in solid twenty-five karat gold bars. I would suggest your entire crew assist with unloading the transport; we were unable to provide our own due to the sheer volume."

Devik's eyes widened for a moment; his _entire _crew? A chill went down his spine. The _Versaille_'s cargo bay doors had only dropped a quarter of the way down. There was still time.

"McHaddock, abort the descent! Helmsman, prepare for emergency hyperspace transit! GET US OUT OF - !"

No one would know the rest of Devik's escape plan as a bolt of blue-white plasma furled around a sphere of pure metallic mass was fired from above by a Maximus submarine that had been shadowing the freighter ever since it left the United Systems border. The captain, his two bridge crew, and that comfortable chair were incinerated as the sphere of mass ripped straight through the bridge, allowing the plasma to fill and scour the compartment. The force of the blast and exit of the sphere through the bottom of the ship rocked the entire ship.

The sleek craft's cloaking suite deactivated a second later, the strain of both systems having tripped the equivalent of a circuit breaker to reset the power grid. An advanced enough sensor array with the latest early warning detection systems would have had a hard time distinguishing the distinctly human ship's signature from a Predator hunting vessel in that instant. A rippling tidal movement revealed an oblong, oval frame with three firing pods oriented around near the mid-section on its underside, one of which was angled down at the bridge of the _Versailles_. Rivulets of plasma that had not successfully fired were still snaking out of the chamber. A Trebuchet-class mass driver turret mounted on the top of the stealth vessel activated, rising above the sleek curved surface of the top side.

The submarine maneuvering to get a better shot, the mass driver aimed at the bridge that the torpedo bay had just eliminated. A high-explosive shell had been loaded, optimized to mimic the typical ordinance of outdated weaponry a prospective space pirate may have had ready access to.

As the mass driver fired, the whole Maximus ship rocked enough to send it into a spin. The hammer serving as the driver's impetus was accelerated towards the back of the large weapon by gauss force, extending halfway out of the barrel, then violently released into the loaded chamber by the strong hydraulics that normally kept the hammer compressed against it. A resounding, sudden _thud_ would have been heard in a medium where sound could be heard.

The shell took out the bridge, debris hurtling away from the explosion. The hall containing escape pods, situated behind the bridge, had also been compromised, emergency bulkheads dropping into place to prevent further depressurization.

The _Versailles_ having been disabled, the _Charon_ retracted its turret and reactivated its cloaking system. Vanishing into thin air almost as its forebears had in the days of simple world war, when the concept of millions of lives lost was still regarded as global tragedy, it began to make its way out to open water to keep watch.

/ / / /

Meanwhile, McHaddock had received his orders half a second too late. A Servitor sphere wedged itself in between the massive cargo door, crushed in the process. Its sacrifice allowed the others to gain purchase on the door and begin pulling it down. It would have been simpler to have just cut their way into the bay, door or no door, but SPARTAN's directives were clear: the humans needed to doctor the incident.

The nonexistent integrity of the hold prevented any of the hatches leading into it from being opened. The crew of the _Versailles_ had armed themselves the best they could given the circumstances. A few stood ready in a group, having been fortunate enough to have been locked within the mess hall that also held their small store of firearms and barricading themselves with what sparse furnishings they had. The others had grabbed what they could, or hid.

The bay doors having been wrestled down far enough, the transport drone inserted itself into the vast freighter. On the inside, it barely took up a tenth of the hold length-wise, let alone anything width- or height-wise.

Another Servitor slipped inside before the others let go, the ones nearest to the crushed door jamb doing their best to salvage it.

Thrusters engaged, the transport landed near the jagged gash in the scrapped hulk, gang ramp towards the four or five corridors that scanners showed the respective crew members to be holed up in. The sphere kept in between the cargo bay ramp and the rear side of the rusted heap in which the package's compartment was located, arms deployed to rip into the circuitry of the ship through a metal wall to interface with its circuitry, and to use the cutting lasers equipped on the tips of its arms to extract the compartment.

The atmosphere seal secured as the cargo door locked into place. The bulkheads had not unlocked; Maximus controlled the ship now.

The transport's AI determining that conditions had sufficiently returned to normal, the ramp lowered. Helial and his squad walked down in a line, then arranging into three smaller teams, two gunners, one launcher per group.

Marrek nodded at his comrades, and they started towards the mess hall. The other individuals would be easy enough to handle later.

/ / / /

"Cappin'? Cappin'?! Shite."

McHaddock ceased his attempt to raise Devik on his wrist comm. The explosion that rocked the rest of the _Versailles_ must have sent him to meet his maker, along with Hadsfield and that gem of a pilot the rest of the crew had taken to calling Sushi, his proper name incomprehensible to the majority of the ship.

That brought the number of survivors down to nineteen. McHaddock still didn't know what they were up against.

He turned around to the sound of the blast door responding to a security override, multiple locking mechanisms undoing themselves. He figured his chances just shifted from bad to nil. The Irishman wished he had given a kiss to that bonnie lass back home on Luna. He wished he had pursued her earlier. Maybe if he had settled down after the Kesseler arms run that had set him up for a good twenty years and a healthy retirement fund for his kids to get a good education, he would not have been here. Alas, time and fate did not favor him at all.

"Here they come!" someone shouted. The eight of them had overturned chairs, tables, ducked behind the kitchen counter. They all had some experience with firing a gun, but only one of them was ex-military. That one, Jinnsford, had barked at them to spread out instead of cluster behind one large barricade, adding a few choice words under his breath as he took up the position behind the sofa, closest to the door.

Each figure tensed, aimed at the portal from whence would come their adversary. Trigger fingers poised, they waited for the hatch to open. They heard an odd humming sound emanating from behind it.

Jinnsford blinked, a moment of recognition playing across his features. He whirled back at the others and yelled, "GET DOWN!"

The door opened and a loud metallic _thump_ was heard. Jinnsford barely had enough time to look at his end before the sphere hurtling through the air hit him square in the chest, knocking him back. The red colored band around it activated as he fell, sphere indented in his ribs, causing the color to dissipate and be replaced by a blazing white heat.

The blast knocked McHaddock down, even from behind his place up on a slightly higher level protected by the dining table. He was thrown into the wall and had the wind knocked out of him, the pistol he carried dropping somewhere to his right. The Irishman blinked rapidly, trying to clear the dust from his eyes and shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. Shards of metal and wood stuck out of the wall he was on; he did not need to look to know that he was also just as peppered. He heard muffled screams, ended by a quieter whistle following the hissing _bang_. Yet, some of the higher pitched screams just kept on going, stopping for breath only to continue on in greater fervor. The banshee's wail, as it might as well be called.

McHaddock looked up, seeing a man in full combat armor above him. There were no tags, no identifying marks, not even a transparent visor. Just the same color scheme of red, yellow, and black. The figure raised its strange weapon and pointed it at McHaddock's head. He felt the butt of his pistol with his right hand, tried bringing to bear on the unknown assailant. The gunman's trigger finger was quicker.

And McHaddock knew no more.

/ / / /

I just realized how boring it might be to have to read through the scores of lines of unedited description… If you think otherwise, don't be afraid to share in the reviews! Good grief, it feels like my author's note in the first chapter scared everyone into silence for fear of something I didn't even check to see is possible. It's not like would let a team of moderators, let alone an individual one, go through and knock on the doors of all the flamers on the site at any given time. Come on, people, gimme some feedback! Live a little and dare to speak out!

A little bit more action in this chapter and it is so far the longest owing to my tendency to over-describe. I hope someone finds the same enjoyment as I do in the general flow of events, but if you don't, again, review please?

I will leak a bit of how the next set of chapters will be played out, however: they will be a bit more technical, though I will try to make the chapters slightly shorter so as not to flood one's brain all at once.

Oh, and a disclaimer: "Daidalos Technologies Corporation" is not my own, as much as I would have loved to have come up with it myself, but the property of a dear friend's I met on a roleplay board. I haven't heard from him in awhile, and I hope that he doesn't mind my mentioning his flechette tech and company. 'Tis an homage to him, since we had planned to RP our corporations, Max. C and DTC, together, but the damn board died like all the other ones before it.

Enough of that, however, I'm getting sappy. Next chapter will be up as soon as "Soon TM" was once defined by Blizzard before its release of Diablo 3.

Cheers!


	4. Chapter 4

Once the Maximus fire team had neutralized their targets, settling down to the other half of their jobs, the massive cargo bay doors of the conquered _Versailles_ began anew its descent. Part of the small wing of Servitors drones that had been patiently waiting outside in the vacuum filed in, deploying their arms to carry the decommissioned source of raw metal out of the freighter. Travelling at a moderate speed, the drones looked like workers of some hive creature bringing a fresh kill back to the nest.

On the Alia Minora's surface, the three-story high defensive barrier, which was formed of plasticrete and constituting the enclosure of the research facilities many acres of land, began stirring into life. They could not risk an incursion from the hostile fauna at this crucial moment.

The magnetized metal track running along the middle of the walls hummed, vibrating as mobile gauss turrets mounted on small platforms easily manipulated by electromagnetism moved across them, barrels retracted in the cannon's housing. The respective platforms toward the back of the various lines of turrets moving around caused the track to shake in places as they reached the area they were directed to be in, magnetically securing themselves to the track. The barrels extended as the power grid re-established connection to the guns.

On the top towers half again as tall as the outer walls spread around the grounds, and much wider, mass drivers that dwarfed that of the Maximus submarine's ascended, the firing chamber pointed straight up. As the anchors deployed, the mass drivers began scanning the skies. The hammers were released once, twice, deafening clangs assaulting the air. The first was to stress the hydraulics in a sort of maintenance check-up, the second to apply a new friction-reducing coat of gel along the length of the huge cylinder. Some firing chambers were then loaded with flak flechette, others with spheres of pure metallic mass that took advantage of both the hammer mechanism and the gauss rail that assisted the firing chamber with ejecting the "platform" that held whatever ordnance was loaded.

In short, nothing would be able to interfere with the arrival of the Professor's newest protégé.

The klaxons around the landing pad sounded, the field rumbling a short time later as the underground hangar opened its mouth. Though aircraft and drones were stored in this part of the facility, it also afforded access to a complex system of rails that extended through the entire campus, and quite a ways down into the bowels of the installation. The only things kept on the surface were the munitions and land vehicles, and the odd small barracks for the infrequently needed human patrollers, as well as an immense matter processor, currently configured to receive metal and metalloid elements for the purpose of replenishing the local resource stores.

It was safe to say that Maximus Corporation tended to rely more on artificial precision than the questionable efficiency of organics, as not one being was in sight during these proceedings.

Of course, Maximus did find most of its employees from the criminal underground slow enough to have been put on the immediate capital punishment lists on their respective planets. The recruiting of convicts was an easy, cheap way to keep manpower at full strength in all circumstances. Some of the mercenaries, for lack of a better term at that point, did have a tendency to make a break for freedom from Maximus's leash. They did not realize until their last moments that that same leash had been surgically implanted during their enlistment, a failsafe implemented after the first month of hiring due to the numerous instances of convicts disappearing in transit while at spaceports or making a dash for the escape pods. The function was to track and, if need be, terminate stray links of the perfect chain that was the Maximus community of thugs, murderers, rapists, and sometimes the criminally insane, should they lose their way.

This, of course, is not to say that all elements of the company consisted of embodiments of shot ethics and questionable moral character; a little more than a quarter were legitimately, somewhat, recruited. People of this caliber were mainly scientists, though sometimes disillusioned security personnel and government-affiliated peacekeepers, even a few ex-military types.

One rear admiral Antaeus, now sub-captain, had been one of the latter. Disgraced by a commanding officer slightly above his pay-grade, the blame of a mistake that cost thousands of civilian lives was shifted to him as the subordinate; the dishonorably discharged USCN officer was a gem to have been picked up, quickly rising through the ranks until he had just recently regained some semblance of his previous, hard-earned commission.

The Professor's story, however, was not as clear-cut as the former colonel's. His is a tale of greater strife and sorrow.

/ / / /

From an office window looking into the hangar, Mr. Paik'ri observed the Servitor drones perform a perfectly orchestrated ballet in the air above to cut a section of the hulk away to obtain the strange white compartment, quite out of place considering the hulks great age.

His mandibles clicked as he watched the drones lower the compartment onto the magnetic strip along the bottom floor. It did not crash to the floor, instead hovering half a foot above for a few seconds before slowly moving in the direction of the myriad tunnels snaking through the facility. Paik'ri's concern was not with what Alexander did unto his own kind. He was here to fulfill a contract; nothing more, nothing less.

The eight-foot bad blood turned at the sound of the door softly gliding open, revealing the nearly seven foot frame of Maximus Corporation's clandestine leader himself. Paik'ri would have claimed his skull then and there, save for the semblance of honor he still retained; that, and he was not entire confident that he would best _this_ particular human. Even without the enhanced vision of his hunting mask, he could see the man's icy black mass where a heart should have been radiate a chilling aura. Alexander was not one to be trifled with.

Clicking and growling a coarse greeting in his native tongue, the translator in his wrist computer spat out a rough computerized voice, "May your hunt have been fruitful."

"And your future endeavors plentiful," Alexander responded in kind. He walked to the yautja without fear to clasp hands in a ritual of mutual respect and truce, a large sword with a diamond pommel and a silvery blade emblazoned with a twisting red-and-yellow fire swinging from his waist. The man allowed a terse smile to play along his lips and regal features for a fraction of a moment, piercing gunmetal gray eyes meeting that of where he knew the hunter's to be behind the mask. No, Paik'ri would not get a chance to take Alexander's skull today; he relaxed from the subtle fighting stance he had went into as the door opened.

"I have already given the biometrics you requested to your machine-spirit," Paik'ri said. He hated AIs, ever since his first encounter with a USCM squad he had hunted in his youth, of which a pair of combat synthetics were attached.

At being referenced, SPARTAN's avatar materialized in the corner of the room, bowed to Alexander, and disappeared as fast he had appeared.

"Good." Alexander walked to a raised dais, his desk levitating down from the ceiling and a chair rising from the floor to accommodate him. "Your payment is awaiting you. A Servitor is loading it into your ship as we speak."

Paik'ri erupted into a slow laugh. "I hope it is not in the same fashion as the hapless oomans you lured here." Now, Alexander did let out a genuine chuckle at the thought.

"No, Mr. Paik'ri, I would never be so underhanded to dispose of you. I would at least give you the fighting chance in a duel, my friend." Paik'ri scoffed at the running joke between the two tigers on this particular hill. He would only escape the fate shared by his compatriots that day six years ago by remaining useful to Alexander. The hunter went beyond all of his normal comfort zones in order to retain his pulse in the condition it was now. "Now, on to business: I have another contract for you. A deep space excavation team in search of trans-uranium elements recently uncovered what appears to be an old Pilot outpost in almost pristine condition. My sources indicate that they have not yet realized what they have found, and as such have forgone contact with the United Systems for the time being."

Alexander waved his hand across his desk, which had been gathering the necessary information pertaining to what he had just described. A hologram representing data appeared towards the right of the desk in a sphere. Alexander picked it up, extending it to Mr. Paik'ri.

The bad blood nodded, pressing a button on his wrist computer. A panel shifted to the side on its top. Alexander flicked the ball of data at the opening it made.

"Consider it done."

"Thank you. You never disappoint, Mr. Paik'ri, unlike some elements of my company. Allow me to escort you to your vessel. I would like to inspect how the upgrades have been holding up." Alexander stood up, the desk and chair returning to their resting positions. The two clasped hands, the human gesturing for the hunter to take the lead.

/ / / /

"_-upgrades have been holding up_."

The man wearing a white lab coat fringed with Maximus red-and-gold outside Alexander's office was startled by the door's sudden opening, nearly dropping the pen and holopad he had been writing with at the sight of a predator in full hunting garb stepping out first. That did not stop himself from slipping down onto the floor before the hunter, it barely avoiding stepping on him.

He bobbed his head multiple times in its general direction as he got up, then meeting Alexander's cold, almost sad-looking eyes. The hapless tech's eyes widened as far as they could, being a simple handyman in the wrong place at the wrong time. He fully realized the part of his contract iterating his expendability at the moment Alexander snapped his fingers.

The hunter roared. The tech let out a high pitch scream. In one fluid motion, it grabbed the man's head, shoved down hard, and pulled up harder, ripping the man's head and spine from his body. The sound had stopped, but the emotions flickered for a brief moment before his visage was frozen in place.

"Pity. He had such potential," Alexander commented.

The hunter harrumphed, casually tossing the severed dead some ways further down another hallway they did not need to travel. A group of other lab coats did their best to not notice the grim sight roll past them.

Miniature Arachnica drones dropped from the ventilation shaft that also served as their highway in the facility, and promptly began disposing of the matter staining the whitewash and gray hall.

/ / / /

On a level further below, Robert Koening busied himself with the necessary preparations for the next trial for the Compound. Others bustled around him with their own tasks. He was responsible for the actual calibration of the latest sample to be injected into the subject, the object in question having just arrived. Koening looked around with the casual, ordinary-looking survey of a trained professional, making sure no one was focused on him. Not even one of those damned Beholder drones and their thrice-damned eyes were supervising these proceedings.

The technician put two fingers in one of his lab coat's pockets, drawing it up with a small gray band. His orders were simple: obtain information on Maximus's highest profile projects, and sabotage as many as possible. Today would be the start of phase two. He then carefully undid the seals on the container, gingerly picking up the Compound's serum vial.

As he loaded the serum into an open panel on the side of the medtank that would soon be filled with a human body and a cocktail of stabilizing and restorative fluids, he slipped the band onto the top of the vial, situated around the compound in its stabilizing medium itself. It cinched tightly into place, the microscopic needles penetrating into the Compound itself yet being too fine to trigger any containment breach protocols.

A piece of metal locked over the serum, obscuring the band within a myriad variety of other parts. The spy closed the panel, touched a few buttons, and sealed the medtank, his tasks, both of them, finished.

Slowly, surely, the band began pumping a super-saturated solution of an unknown metal element obtained some months ago from a member of the local fauna. Preliminary testing indicated the metal's nearly one-hundred-percent electrically conductivity, amazingly at normal temperatures. The initial batch, however, had been misfiled. Alexander had ordered Koening's team to fix their mistake and procure a new supply, electing for them to do it themselves instead of lending SPARTAN's invaluable aid; it was all the better for the spy to not have that hound sniffing at things it should not.

No one would have been able to discern, buried within the complex mechanisms of the medtank and ready for injection, the solution gradually shifting from a dull black to a muted gray, striations of shiny silver arcing through the Compound.

/ / / /

Aaaaand cliff-hanger. Finally able to do one of those!

I know that I said I'd try and make the chapters shorter but, honestly, I tried and I just can't do it. "Short" does not agree with my tendencies of pontification.

As said before, reviews of any kind, any quips, jabs, two words or entire sentences would be appreciated. Cheers!


	5. Chapter 5

Hello there! I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Real life decided to tie me up in a lot of things. Yeah… This chapter feels a little clunky, but I'll leave it up to the readers to judge that.

There is a somewhat graphic sequence around halfway through, just about at the medtank portion. I did not go into too much grisly detail, but I thought it would warrant a warning if one does not like any mention of needles or having the images of organs and bone being forcibly rearranged.

Without any further ado, thank you for reading!

/ / / /

He felt like he was floating.

The shapes that moved around him were all fuzzy, indistinct, illuminated briefly as some lights evenly spaced overhead shone into the room he was in. The youth blinked his eyes slowly, taking an eternity. He tried lifting his arm, yet it felt like moving through thick molasses. It felt so heavy to move.

Then, a sudden blizzard of activity assaulted him. The lid of his capsule rose, allowing him to see a little better. Tyver saw silhouettes of white flitting around him, checking monitors, poking and prodding him with their instruments for some strange design. The numerous drugs flowing through his system made it feel like he was caught in a time loop, thoughts crashing into each other before coherency, everything but him moving in fast forward. He heard a machine groan above him. Tyver was dimly aware of something overhead working, felt chilled, metal arms grasp him. A needle pierced his neck in the same motion.

Before he could form a curse of some sort, the embrace of his acquaintance Darkness once again greeted him as Tyver fell into another dreamless sleep. But, he did see something as his eye lolled back: an older man standing on clear glass above him watching intently, the sad gaze of one who had seen too much grief in his lifetime.

/ / / /

It was the Professor's sentence to observe the dark fruits of his labor.

He was always found and escorted by two full-sized Arachnica drone platforms. These were much larger than the versions found skittering across the vast network of air ducts, and half again as big as the one that had accompanied the boy on his journey here.

The abdomens were adorned with a vehicle-sized double barreled turret, the faint raised outline of the slender gauss rail gun and the bulky housing of its twinned mass driver apparent against the thick armor plating. This particular class of Arachnicas was outfitted with the strongest armor, eight combination flechette and rifle-caliber gauss weapons mounted on top of each of the corresponding legs that arched slightly upwards before meeting the ground.

The ponderous steps of each chassis usually preceded them corralling Darkarlov into a hall. He had mistakenly thought the massive drones had been sent to eliminate him once XTCE-0000001 had gone on her merry way to a grisly demise, the failure of the experiment and his supposed termination all but assured. Now, two-thousand-four-hundred-and-thirty-nine subjects later, he had adapted to the routine.

He had been placed in his glass holding cell mounted on a parallel rail constructed above the track leading to the portion of the facility dedicated to the strict purpose of testing, refining, and applying the Compound. The portion of the rail that Ben was suspended on was added after the installation had been built; however, it was no matter for the backbone of Maximus's workforce, the drones, to accommodate. The compartment with its now open-air ceiling entered on the magnetic strip below. Darkarlov's cage moved parallel to it, on what constituted the ceiling of the passage.

The Professor was not allowed to take part in the actual procedure of preparing and carrying out the application of the Compound. A small army of techs hopped on to the compartment as the hypersleep chamber began waking the occupant. Their readings and a full body scan of the subject appeared on the holographic display of the glass.

Darkarlov glanced at each readout as it came up, giving a slight nod to each as he approved them. He then focused on the youth himself.

The boy was still garbed in the attire in which he had been taken from his home nearly a month-and-a-half prior. He was only perhaps fourteen, fifteen years old, in good health, although his system was still shocked due to the flush of drugs that had been given to him over course of recent events. Readings also indicated that he was still in a growth spurt that did not seem to be letting up any time soon. Impressive, since he was reaching five-foot-nine. According to the Professor's hypothesis, the youth was a prime candidate for the trial about to commence.

Having finished the pre-screening just as the compartment reached the Compound's lab, the techs made their way off the compartment as fast as they could before the robotic arms grasped the test subject, yet again flushing him with more pharmaceuticals. Three layers of thick steel gates opened to allow the arm and its cargo to pass through, dozens of additional locking mechanisms and interlocking into place. Previous tests had never warranted this security, though Alexander did not want to take the chance that his pet project might actually succeed. Darkarlov wished that it would never. Such a minor abomination would be the greatest antithesis to the natural laws of the universe, even more so than man's election to take destiny into their own hands, sailing the stars and shaping their DNA against what was intended. Yet, to completely _change_ into another form?

_Madness. There is no such thing as a _minor_ abomination. This entire place is tainted._

The Professor pushed his spectacles back up. His glass case halted, connecting to the walk space above the testing area. He walked on, gates corresponding to the three below crashing behind him like the many gullets of Cerberus devouring the trespasser to the Underworld.

/ / / /

The subject was gently placed in the medtank. Smaller limbs within the enclosure began attaching restraints, IVs, monitoring devices, and other pieces of tech intended to smooth along the victim's passage into a new world; whether it be the afterlife, or to a completely new existence that would resound through the natural world, would be left to how the dice fell.

The tank's thick crystalline hatch, treated with acid-resistant materials that gave it a soft orange hue, yet still transparent enough to clearly see through, sealed the subject's enclosure. A mixture of hyper-oxygenated pharmaceuticals, which would in normal circumstances accelerate the body's natural ability to heal, slowly flooded the tank. No breathing apparatus would be needed when the liquid immersing the subject would cause no harm to the body as it filled every orifice. Soon, he was suspended with feet well above the bottom of the tank.

Darkarlov watched with keen interest in a room adjacent to the lab floor, a clear wall of glass barred him from it. This time, unlike all the others, it was different. This was not the first time that the Professor knew he was constantly watched, no matter where he went.

It was the first time, though, that Alexander had acted out of desperation to achieve this feat of strength. It was an utter break of character for the man that believed luck would bend to his will, sooner or later.

_Forgive me for wanting this to work._

The Professor watched on.

Suspended in the healing bath, the medtank began to deploy the Compound. The subject floated with limbs stretched out to all four corners, facing outward towards the lab floor. Two panels moved sideways to reveal the protective housing of Alexander's struggle to achieve one more great wonder. Maximus had managed to procure it from Weyland-Yutani after one of SPARTAN's data mining sessions revealed the location of yet another illegal bioweapons research outpost that was operating close to Maximus-controlled fringe space. The original unrefined substance was an archaeological marvel, found while excavating a civilization that appeared to be Pilot. A quick, surgical strike eliminated the Weyland-Yutani personnel and kept multiple pallets of the substance safe for Maximus to take over experimentation. What was being prepared for injection was the result of many years of combined research that had eventually brought the estimated chances of failure within a range for acceptable losses in mass testing. Darkarlov had only been brought in but a year ago, yet his uncommon expertise and skill for xenobiology as well as organic chemistry had multiplied what Maximus's top scientists had barely achieved by a thousandfold.

The protective shell opened, revealing the muted black Compound loaded into a hypodermic needle the size of pen tip. Darkarlov's eyes widened when he noticed something amiss. _Why is it gray? It is not supposed to be gray! Was something added without notifying me first?_ He was unsure whether or not to inform his handlers.

The long needle positioned itself over the subject's neck, angled slightly toward where the neck met the midbrain. This was also a modification to the original procedure; previous injections were done directly into the bloodstream, though this resulted in a somewhat unpredictable series for the desired transformation. Most experimentees experienced a life-ending change before the process was complete: some had their blood turn acidic before the body was sufficiently adapted to handle it; bones grew to monstrous proportions before organs did, or vice versa, resulting in a painful last few hours before leaving this plane; the few who almost survived were reduced to babbling wrecks who could not adapt to the shock to their systems, or turned completely feral as all humanity was erased in the beings that turned on their captors.

Operating on the silent rhythm of its programming, the machine burrowed the point deep within the subject's skull.

No medicine known to man could blank out that particular kind of pain. Tyver's eyes widened as far as they could, a torrent of bubbles exploding from his mouth and slowly drifting upwards. Lightning coursed through his body as even the deepest recesses of his being cried out in agony.

The syringe mechanism depressed, emptying the silver-streaked fluid into his body. On the molecular level, the retrovirus activated and began attaching itself to the subject's brain structures. Flowing through whatever it came into contact to, enough reached the hypothalamus and pituitary gland. The foreign addition to the process was integrated as the retrovirus began rewriting Tyver's DNA. A change to the procedure Darkarlov had suggested in his mutterings to himself was to utilize an adolescent's changing body, its natural propensity for growth, as the fundamental vehicle for propagating the transformation. Tyver was to be the first for this new line of experimentation. The professor watched on in muted turmoil.

The needle held itself in the original entry it had made. Unbeknownst to nearly all observers, the ring of metal that did not match the machine's hue began to slide down closer to make skin contact with its target.

Then, tendrils of black began highlighting his blood vessels below the surface of his skin. Given that he did not dissolve at that point, perhaps the Professor's hunch would actually result in profound results. Then, the skin began turning black, his hair fell away as the skull also responded to these modified orders given by the subject's own body. Bones, muscle, tendons, flesh began rippling as their structure was broken down and rearranged again into something... alien?

Keeping the same silhouette of the previous human figure, many changes occurred in a short span of time. Skin was replaced with a smooth yet finely coarse carapace that made up the exoskeleton of the desired species. The fingers lengthened and became adorned with razor sharp talons, arms retaining the same figure of the subject's. The legs lengthened slightly, the ankle stretching behind before extending forwards again, resulting in the toes and balls of the feet bearing the individual's weight and the heel was more or less up in the air. Ribs pressed out and hardened to make the skeletal structure that would be regarded as anorexia in any other being, yet adding to the visage of death the xenomorph personified. Muscles shivered as they multiplied the threshold of their strength by a hundredfold. Tendon, cartilage, and other soft tissues shifted to accommodate all of these new changes.

Darkarlov expanded the experimentee's vitals and the real time x-ray feed. All organs were forming in the proper sequence, no difficulties at all developing. This was out of character for the forces of fortune that had previously surrounded this forsaken crusade. Everything was proceeding according to plan. The scientist inside of him was overjoyed. The man within was troubled with a terrible foreboding.

Just as the skull was beginning to shift and extend outward into the characteristic crest of the desired class of xenomorph, the metal band around the syringe turned white-hot.

The Professor stumbled as he lost his balance. His cage had become unseated, the magnetic hum he was so used to hearing in the background taking a strange chaotic rhythm. The lights flickered then went out in this part of the Maximus complex, one by one until all that was visible was the foreign object pressed near the subject's neck. The bright orange light cast shadows across the entire room. He cast a glance to the source of the light, and apparently the cause of this phenomenon. It had not let up, and still continued to brighten albeit slowly.

He heard banging from the far side of the lab floor. Two security personnel spilled into the room, followed by a fellow scientist. This fellow must have been from the pharmaceutical or general medical field. Darkarlov would have been down there himself, but the orders behind his confinement were quite clear. Or, they simply had not been able to reach down here yet.

A high pitched hum began to assault the Professor's ears, even within his transparent cage. He looked at the three men down by the medtank; their discomfort was much more noted.

One of the mercenary's had dropped his flechette gun, trying to cover his ears. The other took a few steps toward the door before he dropped to the floor, unable to move body. Oddly, the scientist just stood there, rocking slightly; blood was beginning to drip from his nose and ears. Darkarlov watched on as he experienced but a fraction of what was going on down there. Then, clarity provided an explanation: this was sabotage, and the men down there were already dead.

The harsh piercing note let out a final screech. Darkarlov barely had any time to think before the glass of his cage walls began cracking, his head being filled with that last burst of deadly energy he could not see. The men below stopped moving as their eyes lolled back into their heads.

The target area being sufficiently vacated of would-be interlopers, the metal band, working in tandem with the culprit behind this incident waited for the lighting to come back on. Killing the mind behind Maximus's brain child being successful, all that needed to be dealt with now was the product of these proceedings.

As the lights flickered back into existence and the magnetics resumed their characteristic hum, the metal band shattered. A massive amount of electricity was released into the medtank, lethal enough to kill a xenomorph, especially one injected with an unknown metal with the tendency to amplify conductivity. Streaks of white lightning arced across the changing figure, who responded by writhing around as best as possible while held fast by the robotic arms. The individual once known as Tyver raged against his existence.

A red haze overpowered his pain, and the newborn praetorian burst out of his cage. The crest had nearly finished forming, yet with this recent interruption it appeared that the creature had not yet finished its metamorphosis.

Darkarlov bobbed in and out of consciousness, but he could hear the rolling roar of his creation, agony and sorrow reverberating within his own being in response.

/ / / /

The man reclined and sipped at his drink. His superiors at Weyland-Yutani were impressed that he was not only able to sabotage their up-and-coming competitor, gather important data, access highly classified blueprints and projections for the coming years, Robert Koening was able to escape with his life and all facilities still intact.

He was now reclining in the transport vessel prepping for departure. Koening had departed as quickly as possible when he burned all of his hardware at Maximus, heading out to a stealth craft hidden at the foot of the mountain west of the facility, deep in the woods a short time after he had sent the signal to his handlers for retrieval. Hiding his signature by keeping close to the ground and waiting to leave atmosphere until after circling around to the other side of the planet, he had made his way to the team waiting for him on some abandoned asteroid.

The ship had the appearance of a simple deep space mining vessel, but that was only to keep up pretenses of plying the honest trade of surveying for rare metals. The only people that came out to these parts were either running from the law, or did not want to be disturbed. Of course, then there was always Company business. This qualified as none of those.

Koening reclined further, closing his eyes. He had no care in the world, and was wondering what he would do with the massive bonus he would be receiving upon return to Company space.

He did not hear the silent din of the cloaked Hunter vessel latch on to the transport, the electric hiss of its cloak vibrating through the hull. The small crew was caught unawares, unable to react as their ship was disabled, leaving nothing but life support functioning.

Mr. Paik had obtained his package.


End file.
